


Hiatus

by lyricalsoul



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Based on ACD Canon, Broken!Watson, Granadaverse, Here Watson is Married, Implied Slash, Lestrade - Freeform, M/M, Mycroft Holmes - Freeform, Post Reichenbach - Granada, Watson!Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:53:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 16,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricalsoul/pseuds/lyricalsoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson's life, post Reichenbach Falls. Granada-verse</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hiatus: Regret

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-post of an old bit I wrote years ago. I was going through a thing, and this came out of that heartache. 
> 
> Enjoy it. It's sad, but gets better. 
> 
> This is based on ACD Canon from the 1984 Granada version of Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Holmes goes over the Falls with Moriarty, Watson falls apart.

For the thousandth time, I retrace my steps, rethinking the entire affair, applying Holmes' methods in a frenzy of anger, heartache, and sheer cussedness, determined to leave no stone unturned, no bush unexplored. I rail and curse and pray until I have no voice left. I peer down into the gaping abyss until my eyes ache from the strain. I stand in the mists of the falls until I am drenched. 

All to no avail.

Holmes is gone.

The sense of loss spurs me on. Night falls on the seventh day of searching, and despite the rain, I begin to pitch my tent.

"You cannot stay here, Dr. Watson." Cyril, the chief inspector, lays a firm hand on my shoulder. "It is raining, and you will become ill. Even more so than you are now."

"I can't leave," I whisper, my throat raw from screaming Holmes' name into the roar of the water, and from the congestion that manifests itself in a cough that won't go away. "He may..."

"It's been seven days, Dr. Watson. If he fell in, there is no way he would survive." He shakes his head sadly. "I've seen it many times. You've done all you could."

"But..." I stop as the words stick in my throat. Tears well in my eyes, and though I know there is no hope of finding him alive, I cannot make myself leave. "No. I won't give up. I will search at the end of path again at sunrise."

"No." He whistles loudly, and two big, strong men approach us. "These lads will see you back to your hotel. Please go with them."

"Inspector, you cannot-" I stop as the constables take me in hand. I struggle, but in vain. They are far stronger than I, and in my condition, there is no way I can outrun them. I heave a great, shuddering sigh that turns to a sob. "Oh, my dear Holmes," I whisper.

"We understand, Doctor." Cyril hands me a tin cup. "Drink this. It'll warm you, help you get through the night."

I take the cup with a gracious smile and down the contents. Brandy, with just a hint of... "What have you given me?"

"Laudanum. Rest, Dr. Watson. You've done all you could."

"No!" I push against the men, but my arms feel as though they've been encased in treacle. "No! Holmes!" I yell as loudly as I can, but it comes out a mere whisper. "No..." I feel myself sinking to the ground. "Holmes..."

"Take him back to his room, and this time have someone guard the door," I hear him say. "The laudanum should keep him out for the night, but he's a stubborn cuss. God damn us all for not being able to at least find the body!"

"Please keep looking," I manage, then surrender to the waiting blackness.


	2. Hiatus: Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson returns to London. Mary is waiting.

I return to London a broken man.

 

My body is battered and aching. Weeks of walking and climbing have taken their toll. I am certain I've contracted pneumonia from my prolonged exposure to the mists of the Falls, and from being foolish enough to stay out in the rain.

 

I am burning. Both with fever, and with the shame that everyone will know that I lost him. I alone am responsible for the events that took place. I should have convinced him not to go, convinced him that the capture of Moriarty was not worth his life.

 

In the dark recesses of my mind, I know he would not have listened to me. I have often prided myself on being the one man Holmes trusted above all others, the one man to whom he would turn in his hour of need. But he was a stubborn man. A man of secrets, and a man determined to have his way, no matter the cost. Though he often claimed to be lost without me, he was a man born to solitude and self-preservation.

 

His Boswell. I snort derisively at that. I am certain that Mr. Boswell never lost Mr. Johnson, nor let him die a painful death when he was charged with his well-being.

 

"John?"

 

I turn at the voice of my wife. "Mary," I sigh.

 

"Your telegram only reached me yesterday." She embraces me tightly. "Are you all right?"

 

Though I try hard to stem the tide of bitterness that wells in my chest, I find that I cannot. I push her away from me, and put my fists on my hips. "No, I am not all right. I am tired, aching, and I seem to have a fever. My best friend, my brother, my... Holmes is dead. Lost in an abyss. I have been searching for him for the past three weeks, to no avail. There is nothing left for me, as the one who meant everything to me is gone. All I want is to lie down in a hole and die. You can draw your conclusions from that." I know my words have wounded her, but I cannot bring myself to care. I snatch up my satchel and Holmes' stick, and stalk toward a waiting cab.

 

After a few moments, Mary climbs into the cab and takes my hand. "I'm sorry, John. I know you did everything you could to find him."

 

I do not snatch my hand away, though it is what I want most. I do not want to be touched, do not want to be comforted. I want to be in pain, to be in anguish, as it is the only thing that I have to focus on. "Thank you for your kind words, my dear. But please... be silent. I cannot talk about it now. Please understand."  
She looks at me, her blue eyes dulled with unshed tears. "I understand. Shall I fetch Dr. Jackson? Your illness should not go untreated."

 

"I will be fine, Mary. A hot bath and an elixir. Then I'll rest. All right?"

 

With a nod, she turns her gaze away from me.

 

I have never hated myself more than at this moment. I lean my head against the wall of the cab, and try my damndest not to let the tears fall.


	3. Hiatus: Remorse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson goes to Baker Street, and encounters Mycroft.

"My instructions were to leave the rooms precisely as they are, Dr. Watson."

 

"Surely you realize that Holmes still considered them to be my rooms also, Mycroft." I lift my head to meet his gaze head on, and am surprised when he doesn't look at me. "What is it? Have you heard something?"

 

"Nothing," he says, still shifting his eyes away from mine.

 

I frown. "You are hiding something from me!" I clutch at his arm. "What is it! I demand you tell me!"

 

He pries my hand off his arm. "I am doing no such thing. My brother is dead. I trusted him to your care, and you lost him."

 

With a gasp, I take step backward. "I had not thought that you blamed me for... events. Professor Moriarty-"

 

"Is dead also," he sighs. "That is the only good that has come of this. I do not blame you, Dr. Watson. Sherlock's... fondness for you is another matter altogether."

 

I do not know how to reply to this. Holmes' fondness for me was something I had only recently discovered. "I am truly sorry that I could not find him, Mycroft."

 

"I did not expect you to," he says in that same off-hand tone. "Evidently, what Sherlock said about your ability for deduction and reasoning were correct."

 

I blink in surprise at the unexpected accusation in his tone. "Surely Holmes... he knew that Moriarty wanted to do him harm, and that he would stop at nothing. He kept me in the dark until the last possible moment. In fact, I believe it was he that sent me the note to return to the hotel."

 

Mycroft shakes his head. "He allowed his love for you to cloud his judgment, and sent you away for your own safety. How unlike him. But then, he never did have common sense where you were concerned. Does Mrs. Watson know?"

 

The question catches me off guard, and I can only shake my head ruefully. "I did not know of his feelings until a few days ago. It was not my intention to deceive my wife."

 

"At any rate," he continues, "I am sorry that his death has left you in such a state of anguish. He would not want that."

 

"I know. But... we... he had come to be family to me, and now that he's gone, I.." I clear my throat. "I'm sure you understand."

 

He nods. "I do, which is why it pains me to speak so at such a time. Sherlock left instructions that were to be carried out, should he die."

 

"I understand."

 

"The rooms here are to be left just as they are now. You can take your belongings, but you must consider 221b Baker Street off limits to you after today."

 

With a gasp, I shut my eyes against the tears that threaten to fall. "I... why?"

 

"It is what he wanted, Doctor. I am charged with keeping his wishes."

 

"I see." I look around the sitting room. "Can I... may I at least have a memento?"

 

"Well..."

 

"His rug," I say, hurrying over to the settee where the drab grey rug is thrown haphazardly across the back. "It would mean a lot to me..."

 

"All right. But please, do hurry and take your things. I have to return to my rooms before a certain time."

 

"Fine." I snatch up the rug, and throw the pipes I'd left behind in my satchel. "Sorry to have taken you away from your routine. Good day, Mr. Holmes." I storm from the room, brushing past an astonished Mrs. Hudson.

 

"Dr. Watson-"

 

"I apologize, dear lady, but I must go before..." I take a deep breath. "It pains me, Mrs. Hudson. Please understand."

 

"I do, Doctor," she says gently. She pets my hand, and hands me a package. "He left a note that I was to give you this. Open it when you get home, all right?"

 

"Yes." I look at the package, then back at her. "What is it?"

 

"Oh, you know he wasn't big on sharing secrets," she laughs. "But I'm sure it's something you'll cherish, something to put that lovely smile back on your face."

 

"I've no reason to smile. I've lost the one thing..." I trail off. No need to travel down that path. Especially not now. "I must go. I hope to someday see you again, Mrs. Hudson." I grab the package from her hands and hurry out into the street.

 

I look up at the bay window, and the memory of the last time I saw Holmes standing there is too much. The dam finally breaks. There, in the middle of Baker Street, with Holmes' tattered rug clutched in my hands, I begin to sob.


	4. Hiatus: Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspector Lestrade to the rescue.

A firm push, and I'm face down in the gutter. "Damn it!" I roar, and haul myself to my feet, fists balled, ready for action.

 

"Calm down, Dr. Watson." Lestrade's wry tone comes from behind me. "You were almost run down by that milk cart."

 

"Oh." I shake myself, and pick up my package, and Holmes' rug. "I didn't see it."

 

"Hard to see when you're standing in the middle of the road crying."

 

"I wasn't...oh, go fuck yourself, Lestrade." I take off at a brisk pace, away from his prying eyes, and from the hell that is Baker Street.

 

"Dr. Watson!" he shouts, following behind me. "Please... wait!"

 

"Just leave me alone!" I shout back, threading through the throng walking along the street.

 

"Look out!"

 

I go to step off the curb, and it is only due to Lestrade's firm hand on my shoulder that I am not run over by the milk cart again. "Damn it!"

 

"You should really get yourself home, Doctor," he says dryly. "I think you took a few years off the driver's life."

 

"His life?" I shrug off his hand, and begin walking again. "At any rate," I say over my shoulder, "thanks for the rescue. You should have let me get run down."

 

"You don't mean that," he says firmly.

 

"I most certainly do," I return, my tone resolute. I walk ahead, determined to get away from him.

"You aren't the only one who misses him, you know!"

 

I whirl around. "What do you know about it?"

 

He comes to stand face to face with me. "Well, I may not be Sherlock Holmes, but I know the signs of someone who's lost the person they love. And I think you know what I mean."

 

"Damn you, Lestrade...!" I take a clumsy swing at him, and to my embarrassment, trip over Holmes' rug, and land on my ass in the gutter. Again. Damn it. I bury my hands in my face, humiliated.

 

"Come on, Dr. Watson." Lestrade guides me off the ground, and steadies me on my feet. "Let's get you off the street before you hurt yourself."

 

"I don't... not home," I whisper. "Please."

 

He looks at me, then nods. "I, ah, know a place." His dark eyes shift downward momentarily, then he turns his steady gaze back to me. "A place where a man can go and forget his troubles for a while. If that's what you want... John."

 

I take his meaning immediately. And though I'm certain that I will eventually blame this on over-consumption of alcohol and grief, I find myself nodding in acquiescence. "Lead the way."


	5. Hiatus: Remedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the morning after. Poor John. Poor Lestrade.

I wake up in a strange bed. In an equally strange room. The angle of the rising sun is wrong, and the bedding is too rough to be on the bed I share with Mary. I blink the sleep from my eyes, and sit up, noting with alarm that I'm shirtless. Further inspection reveals that I'm also without my trousers and my underpants.

 

Stark naked. "Dear lord," I whisper.

 

I vaguely recall Lestrade inviting me to this…place; I recall drowning my sorrows in a bottle of fine scotch… but nothing more.

 

"You're awake. Good." Lestrade hands me a cup of coffee, and sits down in the armchair near the bed. "You snore like a pen of hogs."

 

"So I've been told," I say, blushing furiously. "I, uh…" I sip at the hot coffee. "Th-thank you for the coffee, Lestrade."

 

"My pleasure," he says with a smile. "Though, perhaps you should call me Gus, given the circumstances."

 

"Goose? Like the fowl?"

 

"Like Gustave," he corrects. "My name."

 

"Oh. I didn't know."

 

"You thought it was 'Inspector'?"

 

"No." I duck my head. "Holmes never mentioned it, and I never really asked."

 

"Ah, well, Mr. Holmes was never big on first names."

 

"No, he wasn't." Gulping down the remains of the coffee, I set the cup on the night-table, and clear my throat. "Well, I, ah… Lestrade… Gus… Lestrade… what, ah… what happened?"

 

"Well…" he clears his throat and tugs the dressing gown across his bare chest self-consciously. "You were crying in the middle of Baker Street, and were nearly run down by a milk cart. Twice. Then you tried to hit me. I offered you a bit of comfort. You accepted. We came here, drank an ungodly amount of scotch, talked, drank more scotch, and then you told me about you and Holmes."

 

"I what?" I strive for an indignant tone, but it comes out more a squeak. "Surely I did not…?"

 

"You most certainly did. You told me that you had just become… that it was still new, and you had only been intimate once, and then he…" He looks at me. "Your words, not mine."

 

"Yes, yes," I say quickly. "And then what?"

 

"You leaned on my chest, and began to cry. And I started stroking your hair, then your back, and one thing lead to another… and here we are."

 

"I, ah… that is, remember bits and pieces of it, but not all. I'm sorry."

 

"Unnecessary, Doctor."

 

"John," I correct. "Under the circumstances."

 

"John," he repeats. "I know I was a poor substitute. But I didn't mind, really."

 

"I am rather embarrassed." I toy with the edges of the eiderdown covering my waist. "Did you… was I… good to you?"

 

"Quite," he says with a laugh, then sobers. "Even if your heart does belong to Sherlock Holmes. You made that rather clear."

 

"I'm sorry." I look around the room. "I should… I need to get home. Mary will be worried."

 

"Your clothes are in the wardrobe there." He pats my thigh gently. "You've nothing to be ashamed of, John. Grief does things to a man… I've seen it many times."

 

"But I'm sure you're not usually so… helpful."

 

"Of course not. But you are an attractive man, and I had wondered…" He trails off, and smiles again. "Should you ever need a shoulder to cry on… you know where to find me. Even if it's just to talk. I know how much you loved him, and how much you miss him."

 

"Yes." I give him a small smile. "Thank you… Gustave. And I'm sorry the… events of last night aren't clearer."

 

"I shan't hold it against you. There's a hot bath in the other room whenever you're ready." He eases out of the chair and leaves the room.

 

"Damn it." I lean back against the pillows and wonder just what the hell I've done.


	6. Hiatus: Repine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Repine, verb: to be discontented or low in spirit. That about sums it up.

"It wasn't your fault, John."

 

I brush Mary's hand from my arm. "It was my fault. I should not have left him. I knew there was danger! I knew it!"

 

"You did what you could."

 

Her gentle tone only causes more irritation. "Leave me be, Mary. Please."

 

"I know..." She sighs, and gives me a bittersweet smile. "I know you loved him, John. And he loved you. But you cannot... please, stop torturing yourself. What more could you have done? You searched until you collapsed from sheer exhaustion. You are still suffering. You're sick, tired, and you've had that cough since you returned. I know he would not want you to-"

 

"YOU KNOW NOTHING!" I shout, and immediately regret it as she shrinks away from me. "Mary..."

 

"No, John. I... it's been two months now, and you are no better. You drink constantly, you stay out all hours of the night... and when you deign to come home, you are intolerable. You walk the floors with that damnable rug until your feet ache, you sob out in your sleep, and and have not come to our bed in weeks. I cannot live with you in this state. I will take Mrs. Forrester's offer to travel with her family to Cornwall. Perhaps when I return, you'll be... better."

"I will never be 'better', Mary. Never. Holmes and I..." I trail off, knowing I cannot tell her that particular truth. "Do as you please."

Her hand lashes across my cheek with a resounding smack. "Damn you, John Watson. And damn Sherlock Holmes, too."

I watch her go with a heavy heart, but do not stop her. I know there is nothing to be done to salvage the shipwreck of our marriage. The loss of Holmes, whom I freely admit was my soul-mate, has seen to it that I can no longer love her or anyone else. She is hurt and confused, but I cannot bring myself to care enough to set things right.

 

"Damn it!" I push away from the window, and take up my bottle. Scotch, single malt, and exquisite, has become my constant companion. It has the power to take away my pain, my memories, and allow me a night's rest.

 

I pour myself a healthy dose, and settle on the sofa. I wrap Holmes' tattered rug about my shoulders and pray that the liquor does quick work tonight.


	7. Hiatus: Reminisce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson remembers...

I moan softly, and shift in my sleep, helpless to stop the flood of memories…

***

"I have to admit that I... that is..." Holmes trails off, looking down at the floor.

 

"What is it?" I ask. The reticence is not unlike him, but the failure to meet my gaze is. "Holmes...?"

 

"I love you, Watson." He huffs out a laugh, and looks at me. "There. I've confessed it. Do you want to leave? To strike me? To announce to the world at large that the world's only consulting detective has unnatural feelings for you?"

 

I step closer and lay a hand on his shoulder. "Why would I do such things? I am honoured that you have such... depth of feeling for me."

 

"Yes, yes," he says impatiently. "But...?"

 

"I will admit to being a little bit surprised."

 

"Just a little?" he scoffs.

 

"Yes."

 

"You had an inking?" His voice is tinged with surprise, and I feel pleased that I can evoke such a thing in him.

 

"Not at all," I say. "But I knew you were capable of love, though you were adamant that you had no use for such. I am surprised that you have chosen me. But only a little. It had to be someone."

 

"You're making light of me, of this." He snatches up his stick and hat. "I did not expect to have you toss my feelings back at me in such a fashion, Watson."

 

I grab his arm, and tug him against me. "I am not making light of anything," I say, looking into his stormy eyes. "I am being truthful."

 

"It is not a matter of convenience or the fact that I am exposed to you on a daily basis," he states. "I have analysed this from all angles. I love you. It is an axiom."

 

"So it is."

 

He frowns. "I expected a different reaction."

 

"What would you have me do?" I ask. "How did you envision it?"

 

"That… I had hoped… I am not learned in the ways of… perhaps I fancied – only a bit, mind you – that you might…" He blushes and looks away.

 

I reach out a hand to his chin and turn him back to face me. "Kiss you, perhaps? Hold you close and call you my love?"

 

"Watson…"

 

"And so I shall." I pull him tightly against me, and capture his lips in a soul-stirring kiss. The taste of him is at once sweet and bitter, icy and full of fire, as he opens like a flower to the ravishing of my tongue. I taste every inch of his mouth, running my tongue along his teeth, sucking his tongue against my own.

 

I break the kiss, and lick the outside of his lips. "My love," I whisper, and capture his mouth once again.

 

He moans, and presses himself closer to me, his body moving restlessly against mine.

 

Pulling away once more, I look at him, pleased to see him trembling slightly with desire. "You can let go of your hat and stick, dear fellow. I think you'll stay with me for a while."

 

The stick clatters to the floor, and the only sounds in the room for a long while are the moans coming from the both of us.

 

***

 

I bolt upright, and blink away the remnants of the dream. "Damn it. DAMN IT! Is there to be no peace for me?" I throw the rug aside and get up from the armchair. I grab up the bottle of scotch and pour another glass, then look at the near-empty bottle. "Almost to the end, and still no resolution in sight." I gulp down the bitter liquid ,and before I can think about it, throw the glass against the fireplace, uncaring when it shatters into tiny bits.

 

"Damn you, Sherlock Holmes."


	8. Hiatus: Requiem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's gone. Watson grieves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character death here.

They blame me. Though I didn't cause her illness, I may as well have, given the way I treated her. No one has offered a word of consolation to me, nor was I invited to say any words. It is just as well. Given my state of mind, god only knows what bitter words might escape my lips.

In the two years after Holmes' death, I was a terrible husband to Mary. Not that things were any different before, but before Holmes died, I was at least loving and warm toward her. Once I returned from Reichenbach, I embraced my solitary life, and became unbearable to live with. I was rarely home, barely sober when I was, and unpleasant to be around, giving Mary no choice but to leave me. We reconciled twice, but I knew it was doomed to fail. I didn't love her any more, and she most certainly had given up on me after she found the letters Holmes left for me. He'd written them before our trip, and asked Mrs. Hudson to give them to me should anything happen to him. Damn him. It only took one reading of the first letter for her to pack her belongings and leave me with the "ghost of my dead lover." It didn't matter to her that I'd had no knowledge of Holmes' feelings until four days before he died. She knew he wielded power over me, and would have definitely used it to destroy our marriage. I acknowledged in my heart that she was right, and did not fight for her to stay.

Mrs. Forrester welcomed her with open arms. Mary's tears were dried, and she moved on with her life, leaving behind her drunkard of a husband, and his sordid secrets. I gave her the bulk of my savings, and closed myself off from that portion of my life.

Because I had been consumed with my own misery, I didn't know she was ill until it was too late. By the time Mrs. Forrester deigned to inform me that Mary was in the final stages of diphtheria, I could only sit at her bedside and hold her hand. She did not recognise me, nor did she acknowledge my presence in any way, but I did not let that stop me from apologising for the wrongs I'd committed and begging her to forgive me as she slipped away to her eternal reward.

She was a beautiful woman, and certainly a gift from above that I foolishly squandered while wallowing in self-pity and bitterness. She deserved better, and I can blame no one other than myself for not cherishing and loving her. But, even in her death, and as horrible and guilty as I feel, I do wish Holmes was here by my side to bear me up during this sad time. Though he hasn't the most affectionate man, he had an uncanny knack for uttering the perfect bon mot for any situation. I cough around the tide of emotion that swells in my soul at the memories that come flooding back at that thought.

I gently place a spray of roses on her casket, pointedly ignoring the harsh stares of the other mourners. "Rest in peace, my dear," I whisper, my head bowed in respect. I wish Mycroft had allowed some type of memorial for Holmes. Then I would have at least had some closure. A tear rolls down my face, and I brush it away. I do not know which of them I am crying for, but now that they are both gone, it hardly matters. 

I hope Mary found it in her heart to forgive me.

I will never forgive myself.

Or Holmes.


	9. Hiatus: Realization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade gives Watson a nudge.

"This has gone on long enough, John."

I look up at Lestrade, who is seated on the settee, smoking a cigar. "What has?"

"Oh, please," he says, blowing a ring of smoke in my direction. "You know what I mean."

"We have an agreement," I remind him sharply.

"It was stupid and selfish of me to agree to such a one-sided deal."

"Hardly one-sided. Gustave."

He stubs out the cigar and shakes his head. "Oh, so that's how it is then, Dr. Watson?"

I put the paper aside, and duck my head in embarrassment. "My apologies. You are the only friend I've left. You make sure I eat, bathe, and keep me sane. I'd be lost without you."

"Not so, John. You are still lost, regardless of my intervention."

I do not respond to this, as he is right. It's been nearly three years, and I haven't recovered from Holmes' death, nor do I expect to. I gave up my practice, my writing, my club... I don't want to talk to anyone, don't want to hear the platitudes and see the looks of sympathy at my red-rimmed eyes and unkempt appearance. And I most certainly don't want anyone asking me when I'll pick up my pen again. The only person I can tolerate is Lestrade, and that is only because he doesn't want anything of me... except a discreet rendezvous now and again. Ours is a relationship of convenience, mutual need, and commiseration. Now he wants to change things.

"I thought I was doing better," I finally manage.

"Well, compared to two years ago, I'm sure you are," he says. "But not really. You are just the ghost of John Watson. A shadow of the vibrant, passionate man you were. You may as well have died with Sherlock Holmes."

I leap from my chair, fists balled. "You've no right to say such things to me!"

My outburst doesn't faze him. "I beg to differ. John." He stands up and moves beside me. "You know that I do not mind our... arrangement. But... you're not well, my friend, and it's killing me. Holmes," his voice breaks a bit, and he clears his throat. "Holmes wouldn't want you to carry on so."

"Holmes is dead." My tone is flat and hard. "So it hardly matters."

"Oh, it matters, you fool. You were entrusted with the task of being his biographer. There are dozens of stories you've never told. You have stacks of journals and notes of cases all around. Why not take up your pen and write? Fulfill your destiny."

"Destiny?" I snort and sit back in my chair. "I lost everything, Lestrade. I am a bitter man, who drinks to excess, and can barely force myself to rise in the morning."

"But you do rise," he insists, putting a comforting hand on my shoulder. He sighs. "I've lived a hard life, John. Seen things, done things that would send a normal man to Bedlam. So have you. And you survived. A man like Holmes trusting and loving you is an honour. You owe it to his memory to get off your arse and do something."

I put my hand over his. He is right again. As much as Holmes means to me, I cannot discount the effect Lestrade's presence has had on me. He has been steadfast, loyal, and impervious to my bouts of depression, to my constant emotional outbursts, and my selfishness. I take all he has to give and more, ravishing him at will, but never giving him the same opportunity. He has given me his love and affection, and in return, I've given him roughness and anger in the form of sex. I frown as I realize I do not think we've ever shared an actual kiss. Yet he remains by my side without complaint.

"You deserve to be treated better," I say quietly.

He kneels down to sit at my feet. "That isn't the point. This is about you. And what you need to do."

"What, then?"

"Write, John. Contact your publisher. Go to Harley Street, get the help you need, and then get back to practising medicine. I have a place for you in the department. Police surgeon. And you can help me with some of my more... baffling crimes. It's your talent, your gift. It's the only way you'll ever be happy."

"Holmes-"

"He's gone, man!" He looks up at me, his dark eyes imploring me to understand what he's trying to say. "You're still here to carry on his legacy. Is it going to be bitterness and anger, or will you take up your pen and show the world how much you loved him?"

"I..." I place a hand on his head, and stroke the silky dark strands of his hair. So much like Holmes, but yet so different. The same innate curiosity, the same determination to be right... even when wrong. "I won't make any promises, Lestrade."

"I've never asked you for any," he replies. "Just try. Isn't that the motto of the firm?"

A sob rises in my chest, and I cough to cover it. "It is."

"At least shave off the beard."

I laugh and pull him against my legs. "You are indeed a treasure, Gustave. I may still be lost, but without you, I'd be dead."

He smiles and pats my knee. "I'll make an appointment with my barber."

It's not much, but it is a good beginning.


	10. Hiatus: Revival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson's getting better. Forgive the liberties I've taken with the timeline.

I started my catharsis by writing like a madman. The words poured from me like bitter water, flowing onto the paper in waves. I could not stem the tide, nor did I wish to. It was like balm to my wounded soul, and I was determined to keep going until I ran out of words.

Some of the things I write of are not for the eye of the public. My personal thoughts, feelings, and anger would not be silenced, so I took up my journal and unleashed them. I cry, I rail, I howl like a demented man, but still, I write.

Once I'd purged my soul of the pain and misery of the past few years, I began to focus on my well-being. I started walking in the evenings, and am pleased that the nasty congestion I'd been nursing for the past two and a half years is finally loosening its grip on my lungs. My skin is losing its spectre-like pallor, and the enlarged belly I'd been carrying around is diminishing. I take regular meals, and have begun to frequent both my club and the Turkish baths. I shaved off the hideous beard I'd grown, and had my hair cut back to its respectable length. I had no idea I looked so shameful until my barber mistook me for a criminal and started to hand me the day's receipts when I came in for a haircut.

The job as police surgeon is a blessing from above. Not only do I get to use my surgical skills, but I also assist Lestrade with those cases which do not have an obvious cause. It is almost as though it was like before.

I still feel the loss of Holmes rather keenly, but I do not sink into despair at the mere thought of him. He is always uppermost in my thoughts, but I have learned to cope with his death. I finally presented my publisher with an account of his death… leaving out the intimate details, and my utter mental breakdown, of course. The account was published in The Strand to rave reviews and much mourning.

Mycroft sent a note telling me that Holmes would be pleased by the account of his death. I ignored his invitation to come to the Diogenes Club for drinks. I've come far, but not that far.

A knock at the door interrupts my introspection, and I haul myself out of the past , and go to the door. "Yes?" I say to the page.

"Telegram, Doctor."

"Thanks, Peter." I hand him a few coins and close the door. I open the telegraph and scan the contents.

"Dr. Watson," [it read] "please come to the morgue at once. There's been a murder, and I need you to look at the body. Mrs. Adair would be grateful for any insight you can give. Lestrade."

I toss the telegram aside, and take up my coat and hat.


	11. Hiatus: Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I broke Watson again. And he was doing so well!

In the tale, The Empty House, I recounted the events of Holmes' return from the dead, and our subsequent capture of Colonel Moran. In that tale, I blithely accepted the return of Sherlock Holmes with nary a harsh word. I did recount that I fainted for the first time in my life, but aside from that bit of drama, I welcomed Holmes with open arms, a warm heart, and moved back to Baker Street post-haste.

 

That is not what happened. The real tale is a darker one, and definitely did not end happily. Not at first.

 

****

 

"Watson, do you mind if I smoke in your consulting room?"

 

I turn away from the bookshelf at the familiar tone. My eyes narrow, then widen. "Holmes?"

 

He holds his arms out. "Yes."

 

With a swiftness that will later surprise me, I bound over to my desk and pull out my revolver. "Hold it right there, whoever you are. Or I will shoot you."

 

"Watson..." he frowns. "You are not hallucinating. It really is me."

 

"But you're dead!" I point the gun at the spot directly between his eyes. "What kind of trick is this?"

 

"No trick," he says, advancing slowly. "I swear it."

 

"Sherlock Holmes is... he died." I inwardly curse myself for stumbling over those words. "Years ago."

 

The consulting room door opens, and Lestrade comes in. "What's the meaning of summoning me in the name of Sherlock Holmes, John?"

 

My hand clutches the gun tighter as I turn it on Lestrade. "What the hell are you talking about?"

 

He doesn't answer. He's staring at this Holmes doppelganger in amazement. "What the devil...?" He whips out his own revolver and points it at the man purporting to be Holmes. "Who the hell are you?"

 

Holmes ignores the question and focuses his all too familiar gaze on Lestrade, then back to me. "Ah, 'John', is it? I take it there have been... developments since I saw you last, Watson?"

 

"You bastard!" I bang the gun down on my desk, and head for him, fists balled. "How dare you!"

 

Lestrade's strong hand on my chest restrains me. "Don't, John."

 

I relax minutely, and back away. "If you are Holmes-"

 

"Again, I assure you that I most certainly am," he interrupts calmly.

 

"Tell me what you said to me the morning you, ah, died." I stare at him, hoping with all my heart that this is some joke and that I didn't spend the last four years in hell due to some elaborate hoax on Holmes' part. I take up my gun again. "Get it wrong, and I'll kill you."

 

"I hope that will not be necessary," he says, looking at the gun with a hint of trepidation. Then he looks at Lestrade. "I, ah... in front of Lestrade?"

 

"I've no secrets from him," I say firmly, training the gun at his midsection. "None at all."

 

An eyebrow arches. "Indeed? Very well, then." He takes a deep breath, and lets it out in a hiss. "I told you that I loved you more than life itself and that I wished we could stay locked away in our hotel room forever. And I kissed you then, and you responded in kind. We were standing at the looking glass, my hands on your shoulders."

 

My eyes blur from the sudden welling of tears. "Holmes?"

 

"Yes." Again, he holds out his arms to me.

 

"You fucking bastard!" I push his outstretched arms aside and punch him square in the jaw. The impact knocks Holmes backward into the coat rack, and he grabs it to keep himself from falling. I keep coming toward him, determined to pound him into the floor. "Of all the nerve..."

 

"Don't hit me again, Watson," Holmes pants unsteadily. "Or I'll be forced to thrash you."

 

"Thrash me?" I laugh bitterly, and put the gun to his head. "I'll kill you. Kill you. Do you understand?"

 

"John, no!" Lestrade steps behind me, and pulls me away. "Please," he implores, forcing my gun arm down.

 

"Dear god," I moan, and let the gun fall from my hand. "What have you done, Holmes? What?" I collapse to my knees and begin rocking back and forth like a madman. "What have you done?"

 

Holmes kneels beside me. "I'm so sorry, Watson. I had no idea you would be so affected."

 

"Not affected? Have you taken leave of your senses, man?" Lestrade asks angrily. He nudges Holmes aside, and joins me on the floor. "John..."

 

"No," I whisper. "No..."

 

Lestrade wraps his wiry arms around me. "It's all right," he says gently, soothingly. "You've come so far... don't let it happen again, John. Please."

 

"I can't... can't..." I gasp, feeling as though my heart may stop at any moment. "Breathe... I can't breathe...!"

 

In an instant, I am flat on my back, arms above my head, Lestrade tilting my head up. "Keep breathing, John! Don't you dare...!" He takes in a sharp breath of his own. "Please..."

 

"Sorry," Holmes whispers. "So sorry..."

 

"Forget the platitudes and press your hand on his chest," I hear Lestrade snap.

 

Holmes' hand presses against my chest firmly, as his eyes bore into mine. "Though this would make a rather delicious sort of irony, Watson, I beg you... please do not die. I couldn't bear it."

 

I gasp again and feel the pressure building in my chest. "I..."

 

"Shh..." Lestrade puts a finger against my lips. "Stop talking and concentrate on breathing."

 

I can't seem to obey. My breathing becomes more rapid, harsher, and my heart feels as though a giant fist is gripping it. I gasp at the pain, I feel my eyes roll back in my head, and then my world goes dark.


	12. Hiatus: Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes does a bit of thinking while he waits for Watson to wake up. It didn't come out as angsty as I wanted, but it is Holmes.

Watson takes a shuddering breath, and before I can prevent it, I let out a cry of relief. I do not think I should have lived had he died within minutes of my return.

I lay my head on his chest, and listen to the comforting beat of his heart.

That I missed him is an understatement. As much as I was obligated to fulfill my promise to that Great Person on the throne, to leave my dear one when the feelings between us were so new nearly destroyed me.

The Watson I left behind was a vibrant, caring man.

The one that I have come home to is none of those things. My Watson would not have held a gun to my head, would not have struck me, nor cursed me.

Mycroft kept me in the dark as to Watson's condition. He did tell me of his wife's unfortunate death, but I had no idea he'd taken such a downward turn. Though he seems the picture of vim and vigor to the untrained eye, I observe that it is not so.

His eyes are dulled with the effects of a deep, hidden pain, and it is only recently that he has stopped drinking heavily. His fingernails, hair, and moustache have been unkempt for a long while, and I can see that he has lost weight in the last few months.

I suppose it was fanciful of me, but this is not how I envisioned my return. I did not expect to be embraced as though a soldier returning from the battlefield, but the pain and obvious suffering that permeates from his entire being is far cry from what I expected. Also, I did not expect that Lestrade would be here, watching over him like a mother bear with her cub. This unforeseen detail is rather surprising, as is the intimacy between them. Knowing that Watson wouldn't declare his love for me if he loved another, this... thing between them must be borne of my untimely demise. While not necessarily surprising that Watson should seek comfort, I do find it odd that it should be Lestrade in the role of comforter.

These past years away from him have been sheer torture for me. I did not have great regard for myself or my health, and it has taken its toll on my well-being. In spite of all that has transpired in my own life, I do love Watson. And I missed him so much at times that I was hard-pressed to carry out my duties. I came back here in the hopes that Watson would set me on the path to recovery, and that we could rekindle the flame that burned so brightly between us.

I am not so foolish as to believe my road back to his heart will be easy. There is, of course, Lestrade to deal with. And Watson himself doesn't seem inclined to set things right between us. Or even meet me halfway.

I can only hope that whatever he felt for me is still buried deep inside, and that one day soon, he will love me once again.

And that he will find it in his heart to forgive me.

I can only hope.


	13. Hiatus: Resentment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson wakes, Lestrade bristles, Holmes tries to explain. An unexpected visitor makes things worse.

When I next open my eyes, I find myself in the spare bed of my surgery. The room is dimly lit, but I can make out Lestrade sprawled in an armchair near the door, and Holmes standing at the window, deep in thought. I shift restlessly, and groan at the pain this causes.

Holmes whirls toward me, and is at my side in an instant. "Watson-"

"John-" Lestrade is on his feet and at my side before Holmes can finish his sentence.

"What happened?" I manage to croak out, my eyes never leaving Holmes. "Can it really be you, Holmes? How can it be? How did you climb out of that awful abyss? Am I dreaming?"

"You are not dreaming, Watson." Holmes holds a flask to my lips. "Drink."

Brandy trickles out against my lips, and I swallow slowly. The steady burn of the liquid does much to clear my head, and I push at his hand. "Enough. What happened?"

"Dr. Jackson," Lestrade says, "seems to think you've had an attack of some sort." He gives Holmes a scorching look. "Though he does not think it is your heart, I beg to differ."

"Though I am extremely grateful for the update on my condition, I am well aware that I did not have heart failure." I look at Holmes expectantly. "My question was to Holmes."

"I do wish you would stop glaring at me, Lestrade." Holmes steps away from the bed and moves back to the window.

"You're fortunate that glaring is all I'm doing," Lestrade responds angrily.

Holmes turns to face him, a small smile on his face. "If you've something to say, please refrain from sighing and speak your mind."

"There's plenty to say, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade sounds as angry as I've ever heard him. "But it isn't my place to say it."

"Gentlemen," I cut in pointedly. "If you don't mind...?"

"The shock was a bit much for you, I'm certain." Holmes moves back to my side. "I sincerely apologize, Watson."

"And what purpose does apology serve?" Lestrade asks snidely. "He thought you dead!"

"The, ah, misconception seems to have run rampant throughout the country." Holmes's tone is dry, but I alone know him well enough to hear the uncertainty in his voice, even after all this time apart. "Thanks to your lovely account, dear Watson."

"I..." I swallow hard and try to stem the tide of bitterness that wells in my throat. "Holmes..."

He turns to face me then, and his face is deathly pale. "Watson, I..." He stops, clears his throat, and continues, "John, I know that the past three years have been painful-"

"You know nothing of his pain, Sherlock Holmes!" Lestrade hisses, his face reddening with his rising ire. "And even if you did have an inkling, you fancy to stroll back in his life without as though nothing has happened? You've incredible nerve."

"You've incredible nerve saying such to me," Holmes replies coldly. "This is between Watson and I. Perhaps you should take your leave, Inspector."

"Whatever you say to him will be said in front of me!" Lestrade's dark eyes flash, and I fear Holmes is about to come to the realization that Lestrade, too, has hidden depths. "Whatever rapport you had, whatever bond you had is gone. He was devastated, broken. His love for you died three years ago."

"And I'm certain you were on hand to give it a proper burial, weren't you?" Holmes blithely lights a cigarette. "Very kind of you, Lestrade."

"John concerns me. You, on the other hand, do not. Perhaps you'd like to leave him another note, Mr. Holmes? Let him search for you, pine for you, nearly die for you, hmm?" He laughs derisively. "A cold, calculating machine such as you can hardly be affected by such things. You should go back to wherever it is you've been all these years and leave John Watson alone. He is doing much better now."

"Gustave..." I give him a beseeching look. "Please."

"Oh, no," Holmes says angrily, "Let him speak. I have no doubt that you were suffering, Watson. But I am glad that you had such a good friend to help... ease your sorrows." Holmes' smile is sardonic and his tone droll, which does not bode well for anyone. "I had no idea you had an affinity for the gents, _Gustave_. I should have deduced such from the -oomph!"

I bolt upright just as Lestrade's fist makes contact with Holmes' midsection. "Gustave! That will not solve anything."

"Makes me feel better." Lestrade picks up Holmes cigarette and stubs it out on the bedpost. "I'll not stand here and let him act as though he can snap his fingers at you, and the faithful biographer will once again follow him into the breach."

Though I understand his anger, Lestrade's words prick at me. "You go too far, Gustave. I can speak for myself."

"If I thought it would do any good, I'd report you to your superiors for assault," Holmes says, hauling himself from the floor, "but I am certain I have provoked you to wrath." He makes a great show of dusting off his clothing. "I would like to speak to you, Watson. Without the presence of your besotted watchdog."

Lestrade's hands are balling into fists again, and he takes a step toward Holmes. "Besotted? You have no idea what I feel for John. Or what he feels for me. You lost that right, you arrogant fool. So don't think you can come here and make light of my feelings for him when you discarded him like an old shirt."

"Do not be so arrogant to assume that I shall let you strike me a third time without a solid thrashing, Lestrade." Holmes' tone is icy. "I was able to dispatch Moriarty to the depths of the falls through my thorough knowledge of baritsu. I could do far worse to you."

"There will be no more fighting," I declare angrily before Lestrade can react. "It will solve nothing, and it's making my head ache fiercely." I turn to Holmes. "I want to hear the whole story, and I want Lestrade to be on hand."

"So that is the state of affairs, then?" Holmes asks. I see a flash of sadness in his eyes, but it is so fleeting, that I am almost certain that I imagined it. "Perhaps it is for the best."

"You, of all people, should know the dangers of making assumptions, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade says. "But, pray, tell us your remarkable story. I cannot wait to hear it!"

"Lestrade..." I say in warning.

"Let him mock, Watson," Holmes returns. "It is no more than I deserve." He sits down in the chair next to the bed. "You have to understand, Watson, that I had good reason for doing what I did."

"There is no possible way you can convince of that, Holmes." I fold my arms across my chest and give him a hard look. "My wife died, and I hardly cared. I was blinded by my grief for you."

"I..." He clears his throat. "Mycroft told me of your wife's death, and I-"

"Your brother knew?" I toss the coverlet aside, and leap from the bed. I am torn between tears and going after the elder Holmes to beat him senseless. "He made as though... he told me...! The blackguard! That insufferable bastard!"

"I assure you, Dr. Watson," comes Mycroft's booming voice from the doorway, "that my parents were married when I was born."

"You!" I launch myself at him, pummeling him with my fists. "Damn you! Damn you to hell! You unscrupulous ass!"

"Watson, stop!" Holmes grabs me about the waist, and drags me to the other side of the room. "This will not help matters."

"Dear lord," Mycroft pants. "I most certainly did not expect to be met with such violence!"

"Obtuseness must run in the family," Lestrade mutters, and helps Mycroft into a chair. "Brandy, perhaps?"

"Please," Mycroft replies, dabbing at his split lip with a handkerchief. "I assumed Sherlock would have told his tale by now, but from the size of the lump on your jaw, brother, you haven't gotten that far."

"Indeed not," Holmes say, rubbing his jaw absently. "Since we're all present, and time is of the essence, perhaps now would be a good time to relate the tale of my... disappearance, and how the whole affair came about." He looks at me, then at Lestrade. "If I have your word that you will refrain from physical violence until the end of my tale...?"

"You have my word that I will not strike you again," Lestrade say solemnly, handing Mycroft the flask of brandy.

"No, Holmes," I say. "I am as angry and dismayed as I have ever been. I will not promise that my reaction to whatever it is you have to say will not be violent. You and your brother," I spit the word out with vehemence, "are lucky I do not shoot you both and be done with it."

"I know that my actions have hurt you deeply, Watson," Holmes says, his voice filled with emotion, "but set aside your pain, and hear what I have to say. Please."

I sit down on the settee next to Lestrade and nod. "Tell your tale."


	14. Hiatus: Remembering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes tells his tale. Watson scoffs, and breaks a little bit. Sorry.

"No." 

"Sherlock, you cannot refuse to go. The Great Lady herself has requested it. You are the only one we can trust to do the job."

I look into the stubborn face, and grey eyes that are a mirror of my own, and sigh. Mycroft is a force to be reckoned with when he gets the bit in his teeth. It is rather low of him to appeal to my sense of pride in my country, but no trick is beneath him when he wants something done. "Watson..."

"He will understand."

"He will not." My tone brooks no argument. "I cannot ask it of him."

"He is not your wife who must be coddled and made to understand, Sherlock. He is your flat-mate, your biographer, your..." he trails off and stares at me for a long moment. "Or perhaps I have misjudged."

I look away from his knowing smile. "You are well aware that you have not."

"Sherlock..."

"Do not presume to lecture me about my affairs, brother-mine. Your own actions with a certain interpreter..."

"Quite right," he cuts in hastily. "Does the good doctor know of your feelings?"

"Not yet."

"You should keep such things to yourself," he sighs. "You will only find heartbreak at the end of that road."

"I have never felt this way before," I say. "And while I regret that there has been no one in your life to bring you such happiness, surely you must understand how important Watson is to me."

"But be that as it may, you cannot allow your personal feelings-" he says the word with disdain – "stand in the way of the job you are being asked to do. Moriarty must be stopped. Your mind and his are much alike. You alone have the wits and energy to see to it that he is punished for his crimes."

"Watson will not understand, Mycroft. And I will never... I will lose the very thing I have wanted for years. I cannot."

"You are not being _asked_ , Sherlock." His tone is hard and firm. "It is for the service of your Queen. Go willingly or not, but you will go. How you do so is your choice."

I sigh, and find that tears have welled in my eyes. "I will never forgive you for this."

"You will, brother. It is but a temporary set-back."

"You do not understand, Mycroft. And I am certain that you never will. Make the arrangements."

He smiles and hands me a sheaf of papers. "I have already done so."

I leave Whitehall and begin devising a way to tell Watson of my feelings. After which, I must muster up enough courage to walk away from him.

 

***  
 

"...it was important that you think me dead, Watson. Your inability to lie, coupled with your intense regard for me would have set Moriarty's minions on you, and they would have tortured the truth from you."

Watson looks skeptical. "Moran knew you were not dead. Your story is filled with inconsistencies and lies, Holmes. One does not have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that. Sigerson, indeed. You must think me incredibly stupid."

"I do not," I protest. "There are details that cannot be revealed, but suffice to say that Moriarty's empire was vast and his associates vowed to avenge his death."

"So even after all this, I am not to be taken into your confidence? You took your brother into your confidence, yet let me believe you dead? For years? After professing your undying love and passion for me? You made love to me, Holmes! I committed a sin against god, and wronged my own wife because I loved you. And what did I get in return? To be the butt of a grand joke by the brothers Holmes. It is only fitting, I suppose. I have been your buffoon for years."

"John, don't..." Lestrade's tone is pleading, and I have never despised myself more than at this moment.

"Fine." Watson stands, hands placed firmly on his hips. "Let us be about the business of capturing Moran, and serving Her Majesty. Then I can go back to my life, and you," he looks at me, "can go to the devil. With your brother."

"Dr. Watson..." Mycroft stands also. "The Queen herself ordered him to go. What should he have done? He did not tell you in order to protect you."

Watson ignores this, and shrugs into his overcoat. "Should I bring my revolver?" He doesn't await an answer, but goes into the consulting room, closing the door with a slam.

"Watson!" I call out. I move to follow him, but Lestrade's hand on my arm stops me.

"He won't talk, Holmes," Lestrade says. "The Watson you left behind is gone. The man left in his place will take some getting used to."

"Indeed." I look to Mycroft. "What did you say to him to make him despise you so?"

"Just what we rehearsed," my brother says sharply, and dabs at his lip again. "We have no time for this, Sherlock. We must move quickly, or we will lose our advantage."

"Of course." I feel slightly light-headed and dizzy. This new Watson is a force to be reckoned with. Unyielding, bitter, and angry. While I understand his need to hold on to such emotions, does my return mean nothing to him? "Let us be off then. Lestrade, you will have your men in place?"

"They'll be exactly where you want them. I'll be awaiting your signal." He nods to Mycroft and leaves the room without a backward glance.

"I told you that it would be a mistake to develop feelings for Dr. Watson," Mycroft observes.

"And I told you that I would never forgive you for asking me to choose," I remind Mycroft coldly. "I meant that with my whole heart."

"Yes, Sherlock. Just as you never forgave me for the untimely demise of your dog, the disappearance of your favourite scarf, and the fact that I told Mother you were the one who put those leeches in her bed. Among other things." He waves a beefy hand in the air. "Once we are done with this matter, you needn't worry about seeing me again."

"That suits me fine," I retort. "Shall we go?"

"We shall meet at the Diogenes club tomorrow morning." He heaves his bulk from the chair. "He does still love you, Sherlock. As long as he does, there's always hope."

I ignore him, and wish once again that I'd never agreed to go along with his madness, queen be damned. I brace myself, and go to gather Watson for our journey.


	15. Hiatus: Rebuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This bit takes place at the end of the events told in The Empty House, from which I shamelessly borrowed a few bits of dialog. And I think I broke them both this time. Apologies in advance. (Sort of.)

It is over.

Sebastian Moran has been handed over to Lestrade, the crime of the century solved. The culmination of the case led us across the street to our rooms, where Holmes invited me to have a cigar. I politely declined the offer of a smoke, but could not resist the lure of seeing our rooms one last time.

The rooms are as though we just left them this afternoon. Persian slipper hanging from the mantle, stuffed with tobacco, the pipe-stand, and the violin case. I marvel at how things, though uncharacteristically tidy, look as if they haven't been touched.

"Between Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, the rooms are just as we left them," Holmes says. "Even down to your old chair, in its usual place. The only things missing are your papers and your cigars. And you, of course."

"I see." I once again feel a surge of anger at Mycroft for his deception. "The Colonel seems to have a keen aim." I look to the strange waxen likeness, wrapped in Holmes' familiar dressing gown, shaking my head in wonder at the uncanny resemblance. It has a neat hole in the middle of the forehead, which shattered when the bullet hit it. "Ingenious plan, if not a little dangerous."

"We were surrounded by Lestrade's men, as well as undercover government agents. Mycroft saw to it."

Mrs. Hudson bustles in the room, smiling at us both. "How good it is to see the two of you together again! Never thought I'd see it again." She fusses over the dirt on my coat, and then pulls me into a tight embrace. She holds onto me for a long moment, then steps back, holding me at arms length. "You're looking much better than the last time I saw you, Doctor. Got your colour back, and-"

"My good lady," Holmes cuts in. "You observed all precautions, I hope."

"Went to it on my knees just as you told me."

They chatter back and forth a bit, but I am uninterested. I roam about the room, touching various items, blinking back the tears that the memories bring forth. With a heavy sigh, I sit down in my old chair, and fight the urge to bury my head in my hands. This is all too much. I should never have agreed to come here. That things are unchanged is a solid testament to the fact that Holmes knowingly deceived me, while professing to love me. I am a fool. "Holmes, I must be going."

I hear Holmes murmur to Mrs. Hudson, then the snick of the door closing.

"Oh, Watson..." He kneels at my feet. "Watson..."

I find myself alone with Holmes for the first time since his return. And for the first time in our friendship, I am nervous. I don't know what to say to him, or even how to say all of things that I've been rehearsing for the past three years. I yearn to call him a blackguard, and slap him hard enough to make his teeth rattle. But I cannot. It will solve nothing, and there has been enough fighting tonight to last a lifetime.

"Watson." Holmes places a tentative hand on my knee. "Please talk to me."

I move his hand aside and studiously avoid his look. "I should be going. It is late, and I have an early patient in the morning."

"Won't you stay? I'm sure we have much to talk about."

I laugh, and the sound is hollow to my own ears. "Surely not." Getting to my feet, I stride toward the door. "This is not something you can fix with a pipe and a nice fire, Holmes. I have helped you as I promised. Now you must leave me to my life."

He stands. "That won't do, Watson. I... the feelings-"

"Don't!" I hiss. "I thought you dead all these years, man! How can you, with your great intellect, even imagine that I would want to discuss my feelings with you? Perhaps your… travels have addled your brain. You should find yourself at Harley Street at first light."

"I have never seen you thus, Watson," he says looking at me intently. "It is frightening, yet a fascinating thing to behold."

I take up my hat, and head for the door. "I'll not be mocked on top of everything else. Goodnight."

"I'm sure Lestrade will understand if you return late. He will have his hands full locking up Colonel Moran."

Though a seeming innocuous statement, I can hear the intended barb beneath the innocent tone. I draw myself up, and give him an icy look. "What Lestrade will or will not understand is of no concern to you, Holmes. But I will say that he is a decent, honourable fellow who gave me a hand when I needed it most. I'll not have you maligning his character."

"It was merely an observation." He studies his hands for a moment, then looks back at me. "Truly."

I snort in disbelief. "More like a question to which you know the answer. Use your methods, Holmes. Better yet, why don't you follow me, and satisfy your curiosity? I never could see through your disguises. It's a wonder you didn't just come back here after your 'death' and live here, disguised as Mrs. Hudson!" It is a cruel thing to say, but I am beyond caring at this point.

"A thousand pardons, my dear fellow," he says, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "I shall not keep you any longer. I wish you all the happiness in the world." He gestures toward the door. "Goodnight."

I touch my hand to the brim of my hat. "I wish you the same." I wrench the door open, then turn back to face him. "When you… I was, ah… the rug your mother gave you when you first went off to school is in my possession. I will send the page with it tomorrow."

"I do not want it back." His tone carries some ice of its own.

"You shall have it, as I no longer have need for it." I leave the room, taking care not to slam the door behind me.

Hurrying down the stairs, I try to ignore the shattering glass I hear from above.

I climb in a waiting cab. "To the nearest tavern, sir. An extra coin if you hurry."

Drinking doesn't solve everything, I know. But it does wonders for making one numb.


	16. Hiatus: Regress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When we last saw Watson, he'd fled the horror of 221b, and headed for the nearest tavern. This is what happened a bit later, as told by the stalwart Lestrade.

Just as I was about to give up pacing in front of the fire and go out and search for him, I hear the scratching of a key at the lock.

"No, no... I've got it." John's voice is loud and slurred. "Just a second, my pretty. So impatient!"

I stride over to the door and wrench it open. "What the devil...!"

John stumbles into the room, drunk as you please. "Oh." He peers at me through glassy eyes. "I didn't know you would be here. No matter. The more the merrier!" He gestures at the rather large woman standing behind him. "Come in, dear lady. Make yourself at home."

I take in the garishly painted woman who sashays into the sitting room, in a whirl of overpowering toilet water and cigarette smoke. "Perhaps now isn't the time for company," I say.

"Be a sport, Gus!" John waves a hand in the air. "Pour us some drinks, and lay out a feast!"

"He invited me over for a good time," she says highhandedly. "He didn't let on that his father would be about." She puts an arm around John and nuzzles his neck. "Maybe you should get rid of him, my love. Our time together should be private."

"I'm not his father." I remove her arm from John's waist and gesture at the door. "Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard. I think you and I have made acquaintance before. Slick Sadie, if memory serves."

She gives me a thorough looking over through narrowed eyes. Recognition dawns, and she has the good grace to look nervous. "I don't want any trouble, copper. I wouldn't have come if he hadn't invited me."

"I highly doubt that. You saw that he was deep in his cups, and thought you had an easy mark. Go on with you."

"I am not drunk," John slurs. "I'm just…" He teeters a bit, and grabs hold of the back of the sofa. "Maybe just a bit."

I look at Sadie, then at the door.

"Fine." She flounces to the door. "His loss, not mine."

"Tut-tut, Sadie. Leave his wallet."

She glares at me, but tosses his wallet on the side table.

"And his notes."

"He promised me-"

"He's drunk," I say. "And it would be a shame if I had to haul you to the Yard tonight."

"Damn the lot of you Yarders." She reaches into her bosom and pulls out a bounty of money. She drops it on the table. "That's all of it. You should keep a closer eye on your friend, Inspector. A meaner woman would have robbed him."

"Thank goodness for small favours."

She says something intelligible, and slams the door behind her.

"Oh..." John grabs his head at the loud noise. "Dear god..." he groans.

I go to his side. "What have you done to yourself?" I pull him over to the sofa and help him sit down. "And why?"

"Was at Baker Street," he says sadly, his voice slurred. "Everything is the same. Down to the damned slipper filled with tobacco. They knew, Lestrade. And they didn't tell me. I shall never forgive him!" Tears fill his eyes. "How could he? He said..." He sags against me, his head falling to my lap. "I missed him so, and all that time, all these years, he was… oh, dear god…" He trails off, and his hands clutch at me tightly.

"Poor chap," I whisper, stroking his hair gently. I've a mind to go over to Baker Street and take a riding crop to one Sherlock Holmes.

***

I emerge from the bathroom, feeling slightly more human than I did twenty minutes ago. My head still feels as though someone is smithing in it, but my teeth have lost that furry feeling, and I don't smell like I slept in a distillery. I do not want to face Lestrade, as I am ashamed that I have apparently fallen back into my destructive behaviour. I don't know how to explain my feelings to him, but he does deserve an explanation.

"Here. Drink this."

"Could you please lower your voice?" I take the cup Lestrade is holding out and sip at it cautiously. The warmth of the coffee does wonders for my dry throat. "Thank you. I needed that." I take the top from the breakfast tray, and groan. "I don't… I may… dear god…" I replace the lid. "I think I'll skip breakfast this morning. But don't let that stop you."

"Right." He seats himself across from me and sips at his own coffee. "Quite a night."

"Yes." I sigh heavily and set my coffee aside. "What… I don't remember much. I, ah, left Baker Street, and went to the tavern on Ellis Lane. Had a few pints, then switched to heavier stuff. I met a lady…."

"Slick Sadie is no lady," he says dryly. "She's well known in that part of town. Rob a man blind in sixty seconds."

"Oh!" I look around the room in a panic, wincing at the sudden movement. "My-"

"In your drawer, along with your watch, pocket knife, and your notes." He glares at me. "That was rather stupid of you, John. You could have been hurt. She never works alone. What if I wasn't here? A gang of hooligans would have run you to the ground. You've been down this road before, my dear man, and I don't think I can watch you destroy yourself again. He's not worth it."

Though his offhand mention of Holmes pricks at my heart, I know he's right. We neither of us speaks of the young toughs who accosted me one afternoon as I made my drunken way home. I duck my head in shame. "I'm sorry, Lestrade."

"Ah, Lestrade, is it now?" He sets his cup aside. "I did think I'd have a bit more time before we went back to as we were before he..." He looks down at his plate. "It's understandable that you would do so."

"Lestrade... Gustave... nothing shall change between us, so you can stop acting as though I'm going to hustle you out the door any time now."

"Things will change, John. You love him. He loves you. You'll find a way to forgive him."

"I may well forgive him, but I swear I won't forget. And even so, I won't cast you aside as though you're some used glove. I care for you immensely."

"And I care for you. Some say," he looks away with a blush, "that it might be love."

"I have no doubts about it, Gustave. You've been a solid rock to me these past years, and I've never thanked you properly."

"Well, don't start now," he says, taking a bite of eggs. "I've got to get to the Yard, and you have patients."

"I'll need a headache powder to face any patients this morning."

"Under your napkin. Ivy is turning into a fine housekeeper."

I grunt at this, but pour the powder in my glass of water, and stir it carefully. I tip the glass at Lestrade. "Here's how." I drain the contents in one long draught and hope it does it work quickly. "I should know better than to mix ale and whisky. It is the devil's potion, to be sure."

"And even more deadly when combined with unresolved issues." He shakes his head. "You're going to have to deal with it sooner or later, John. If you… I don't know that I'm strong enough for a second go round."

Setting the empty glass aside, I push away from the table, and stand. "I know. I won't ask that of you, Gustave. I just wish…" I pause as the downstairs bell rings. "First patient of the day. We'll talk later."

"We will."

"Thank you." I move over to where he sits and place a kiss on his forehead. "For everything."

He doesn't respond, but I see the faint blush staining his cheeks.


	17. Hiatus: Reagent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Watson is out destroying himself, Holmes is doing a bit of the same. Big brother comes over and pushes his buttons.

The smoke in the sitting room is thick enough to cut with a knife. Through the haze, I spy Sherlock prone on the sofa, and empty bottle of whisky lying in the crook of his arm, and his morocco case on the floor, splayed open. I peer at the contents. The bottle is empty.

Fresh puncture marks tinge his arm, and I heave a sigh. "Sherlock..."

"Do go away, brother-mine."

I ignore him, and take a seat in his chair. "Mrs. Hudson is in hysterics. Says you refused breakfast, and reports strange noises during the night."

"Mrs. Hudson is a woman of great imagination. I am fine."

"The room is freezing. You're under the influence of your stupid drug, and you've been drinking."

"How observant you are, Mycroft! Why, you should work for the government." He cackles mockingly. "Perhaps some of the books need auditing."

"I do so hate it when you're drunk, Sherlock. Why don't you go round and talk to the good doctor?"

He snorts at this. "What makes you think he's at the root of my problem?"

"Don't be an ass, boy." I tamp down my annoyance. Must stick to the plan, I remind myself, and touch a hand to his arm. "You're being a fool."

Shrugging off my hand, he struggles to a sitting position, which causes the empty bottle to fall to the floor. He laughs, and immediately places a hand to his head. "Oh... dear god, the room is spinning!"

"As well it should be," I tisk. "Polishing off an entire bottle of whisky, and topping it off with your silly seven-percent solution? I'm certain worse things are in store for you today." I hand him a glass of water from the side table, and watch as he gulps it hastily. "You should talk to him. It's evident he still loves you."

He sets the glass aside with a bang, and winces at the sound. "He's made it clear that he wants no part of me."

"You are not usually so foolish."

"And you are usually not so..." He groans and flops back against the pillows of the sofa. "I should have stayed in Tibet. The silence of the monks there was most refreshing."

"I could find the same at the Diogenes club," I huff, "but I thought it best to come to see to your health."

"You caused this problem, Mycroft." His eyes have taken on a haunted quality as he speaks. "I practically begged you not to send me on that mission. For Queen and country, eh? And what have I gained in return? Nothing!"

"You have gained the undying gratitude of your Queen. And," I add pointedly, "you were handsomely rewarded."

"All the gold in the world cannot make up for what I lost," he says quietly. "As appalling as you find that, brother, it is the truth. I nearly died of wanting, of missing. My fiercest wish was to return to him, to... my raison d'être has become a moot point." He seems to remember to whom he's speaking, and shakes his head sadly. "There is nothing you can say to fix this, Mycroft."

I do not know what to say to this. I knew his feelings for Dr. Watson ran deep, but I had no idea of the actual depths. My brother is such an enigma; his distrust of women is legendary, but I've never known him to confess to feelings of love for anyone. "All the more reason you should go to him."

"There is nothing to say! How can I possibly justify my actions? How can I make up for the hell he's been through? It is a matter of trust, and he now has absolutely none in me. I cannot... I have never, in all my life, wanted to crawl into a cave and die, Mycroft. Such is the depth of feelings I have for him." He swipes at the tears that well in his eyes. "I should have never allowed myself to fall in love. It is the most deadly poison..."

I slap a hand to my knee in frustration. "Enough of this poetic rambling, Sherringford Lockridge Holmes!" I nearly laugh as his eyes widen at my use of his true name. "Get up, attend to your toilet, and see your doctor. You are a man of action, of deductive reasoning and solutions. There is no solution that can be found at the bottom of a whisky bottle, or in the lethargy of cocaine. I do not understand how a man such as yourself came to fall in love with a man such as Dr. Watson-"

"And what, pray tell, do you mean by that, Myron Croftwell Holmes?" he demands, climbing to his feet. "Since we are using formal names and such."

"Ah, I see I've struck a nerve. Wonderful." As much as I enjoy pushing his buttons, I bite down on a chuckle, and face the full force of my brother's wrath. "I simply mean that Dr. Watson is a gentle, caring man. What need have you, a man of logic and reasoning, for such a simpleton? He is beneath you, Sherlock. Surely you know this?"

"How dare you!" His fists clench, and he looms over me as I sit. "Watson is-"

"Yes, yes," I cut in, amused at the flush of anger adorning his cheeks. "He is a virtual paragon of Victorian sensibilities and the epitome of manly handsomeness. You, on the other hand... well, shall we just agree that you are the opposite? I'm certain the good doctor is, at this moment, finding solace in the arms of... was that Inspector Lestrade who sat at his side and held his hand during your absence?"

"Silence, Mycroft!" He whirls away from me, and begins pacing in front of the window. "You are deliberately goading me. It worked in childhood, but it will not work now. I am not going to Watson, so you may cease your inane ramblings."

I look at him, schooling my features to appear totally oblivious. "I am merely stating the facts, brother-mine. Lestrade is not your equal in drawing conclusions, and solving crimes – which, I must admit, makes me wonder at his choice of profession-" I clear my throat –"but it would appear that he has no rival when it comes to the softer emotions. John Watson may love you, and pine for you forever, but Lestrade will forever be in your debt for making his lifelong dream come true." I laugh. "Just think of it, Sherlock. The prettiest feather in the cap of Inspector Lestrade will be that he successfully bested you in the science of love."

"Oh, bosh!" he snaps. "Love is not a science, you fool. And Watson could no more come to love him..." He trails off, suddenly thoughtful. "He will never love Lestrade."

I smile into my hand, and press my advantage. "You are right; love is not a science. But that isn't to say that certain stimuli do produce certain results. Perhaps in time, Dr. Watson would come to love his stalwart Inspector, and banish the memory of you from his mind forever."

"Nonsense," he retorts firmly, but his manner suggests he is not so certain of his words. But in true Sherlock Holmes fashion, he bluffs rather well. "Watson and I... there are other works of which he was to write. Such as the details of my return."

"I have no doubt that he can do so without an emotional attachment." I rise from my seat. "It is past time for me to go about my day. I do hope you won't spend your days destroying yourself." I take up my hat and stick and take my leave.

Out on the street, I chance a look at the bow window. He stands there, deep in thought. I have no doubt whatsoever that he will indeed pay the good doctor a visit today. We are, after all, brothers. It is the same thing I would do, given the same set of circumstances.

I tip my hat to him, and head back to my lodgings, immensely pleased with myself. I do believe a reward of fine chocolates and champagne will suit me perfectly.


	18. Hiatus: Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the angst rollercoaster, in which Holmes acts. Watson reacts.

A week after my temporary, but painful backslide to my former ways, and my subsequent tongue lashing by Lestrade (and Dr. Jackson, my partner), I enter my consulting room to find a rather shabbily dressed man waiting. He nods as I close the door.

"Good morning," I say, grateful that the headache I've had most of the week is finally subsiding. I look at my appointment calendar. "And you would be Mr., ah..." I look at the calendar again "... Lockridge?"

"Yes," he says shortly. His voice sounds like he once swallowed glass shards and his throat never healed properly. "I was told you were one of the better physicians in these parts, and came here as early as I could to consult you."

"I see." I look him over carefully, taking in his pale colouring, wild hair, untrimmed moustache and van dyke, and somewhat dirty nails. "What is ailing you?"

"My heart."

"Ah. What symptoms have you?"

"It is rather hard to describe."

"Are you experiencing pain?"

"A considerable amount," he says quietly.

"Are you taking medication?" I ask, making a note in my book.

"None that work."

"How old are you?"

He laughs at this, and shakes his head. "Old beyond my years, Dr. Watson."

I've never known a man to be coy about his age, but no matter. I set my pen aside, and take up my stethoscope. "If you'll remove your shoes and shirt, I'll set about my examination."

"I'd rather not take off my shoes, if it's all the same to you," he replies. "A nasty foot ailment causes them to be a bit, ah, malodorous, as it were. And as for my shirt, I'm certain a few buttons will suffice?"

Eying him cautiously, I watch as he undoes the topmost buttons. "Is there some... mitigating circumstance that has led you to me, sir?" Not that it would be the first time some ruffian has sought me out due to my association with Holmes. Many of the toughs and seedier types come to me because of my discretion and understanding. "I am merely curious."

"If you mean have I committed a crime, and am on the 'lam', as it were, the answer is no. However, I am guilty of wrongdoings."

"Well, aren't we all?" I press the stethoscope to his chest and listen to the beat of his heart. A bit rapid, and a tad irregular. "Do you drink?"

"Yes." He looks at the stethoscope, then back at me. "More than usual in the last week, I fear. A bottle of whisky was my comfort every night. I'm sure you understand."

"Indeed," I say noncommittally, not wanting to dredge up that memory. "Take a deep breath, please." I reach around and place the cool metal at his back, and wait until he complies. "Again. Thank you." I look into his light brown eyes. His pupils are nearly pinpoints. "Are you under the influence of some type of narcotic? Opium, perhaps?"

"I have taken opium on occasion, doctor, but I assure you, it was only because it was necessary."

"You are rather underweight for your height, and you have scarring about your hands and neck."

"I have just come from abroad. The time I was away..." A tiny smile plays about his lips, and he strokes his moustache thoughtfully. "I did not consider my own well-being."

"Well, my first prescription would be a hearty meal. Followed by many others." I tap his hand with my finger, pleased to see his reflex is in normal range. "Your reflexes are fine... halloo, what's this?" Underneath the line of his van dyke is a faint red mark, indicating that he was struck there. I press a thumb to the mark. "Does that hurt?"

"Less than it did when it happened."

"May I ask what happened? In the strictest confidence, of course."

"Of course. I suppose you could say a jealous lover did it."

"Really?" I find myself utterly intrigued by this fellow. "Let me guess: You had an assignation with his wife, and he caught you!"

"Dr. Watson, please. As an occasional reader of your writings, I must say you have the most vivid imagination, to come up with such things. It is no wonder the public flock to the newsstands when The Strand releases your stories."

"My blushes, sir."

"Though... you will excuse me if I correct your assumption that I had an assignation with someone's, ah woman, so to speak."

I feel my face grow warm at his inference. I tend to forget that there are others like myself in this strict world. "Forgive my assumption, sir."

"Quite all right. I deserved nothing less, you see." He raises his bushy eyebrows. "You did ask for the details...?"

"Go on," I say, intrigued. "I'll continue my exam."

"By all means." He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "I am new at... love. I knew how it worked from reading and looking at others, but had no real experience of my own. Imagine my surprise when I found myself in love! Truly, it was the last thing I expected. And that my love was returned warmed my heart. But... just as our fledgling love took root, my... work took me away. For three long years."

I draw in a sharp breath, and take a step back to look at him. "You have not come here for an examination!" I accuse. "You are from... what paper sent you? You can go and tell them that my answer is the same as it was last week." Once news of Holmes' return spread throughout the city, I have been swamped with offers to tell of the circumstances of his return. And it appears some will go to great lengths to get the details. "Your flattery was unnecessary, sir. And you should take care for your health. The drug you took to convince me of your illness could do irreparable harm."

"I am not from any paper, Dr. Watson. You asked, and this is my answer. I have no reason to lie."

"You are not the first so-called patient I've had this week who has tried to deceive me. I lived with the master of deception and cleverness, and am not so easily fooled. I think your time here is done. You can see my nurse to settle your fee."

"Dr. Watson." His voice is quiet, sombre. "I loved with my whole heart. And I hurt my dear one terribly. When I came back to London, I was rejected. And there was another in my place. Not a better one, but I could see that I had lost." He clears his throat, as he is overcome by emotion. He takes a few shallow breaths, then continues. "I find that I do not...no, cannot live if I do not have my love. You have said I need to eat. I can't. It matters not to me whether I live or die. Without my love, I am nothing."

At the underlying emotion in his voice, I cannot help but soften toward him. "Your love won't hear your tale?"

"It was heard and rejected outright. I can hardly place blame. It is rather preposterous to believe such a tale."

My eyes narrow, and a niggling feeling starts in my stomach. Something is amiss. This tale parallels my own life too closely for my comfort. I dearly wish I had Holmes' talent for observation. I take a step back, and look at my patient with a trained eye. Something... I lean in, sniffing at the area just above his chin, getting a whiff of spirit gum just as he pulls back. I rip at the dark beard, and it comes off in my hand, revealing a familiar mouth. "Damn you, Holmes!" I clench my fists, wanting more than anything to beat him into the carpet.

He sighs and begins peeling off his eyebrows and moustache. "Watson... please do not resort to violence again."

"What is the meaning of this?" I demand, tossing the silly beard at him. "You resort to more trickery and deception to show that-"

"It was the only way I could think of to see you," he says earnestly.

"That is why you didn't want to remove your shirt or shoes, correct? You know I'd recognize your narrow feet anywhere."

"You can be observant when the mood strikes you," he says, casually lighting a cigarette.

"You cannot smoke in my consulting room, Holmes."

He blows out a plume of smoke and smiles at me. "I have fully embraced my so-called Bohemian ways. I shall go about, unwashed, unkempt, in long robes and sandals, spewing forth my tenets to whosoever will hear. When asked what has happened to the great Sherlock Holmes, I will wail and rend my garments, telling the world that I was undone by a broken heart."

"You would not last an hour unwashed." I put my instruments aside. "I do not... why..." I draw in a breath, not wanting to break down into a bout of unmanly tears. "Damn you, Holmes! I thought you dead, and nearly lost my sanity. To top it off, my wife died, and I barely mourned her. I cursed you, and cursed myself for loving you so much. And after all that, after all the pain and destruction, and bitterness, I gathered myself, and started at scratch. And now... you came back as though you've been away on a jaunt in the country, wanting my forgiveness and love. It is not that simple, Holmes."

"Should I show you the keepsakes I gained from my jaunt, Watson?" he asks angrily. "Would you like to see the scars across my back that I received from simply falling asleep in the wrong tent? Or perhaps the place where someone threw a dagger into my side and I nearly died from the blood loss? The aching in my joints from sleeping on hard surfaces, the malnourishment from never having enough to eat, the fear I felt because I had no one at my back to keep watch? Those are merely the things you can see. There are other, deeper scars, my dear fellow, that I dare not speak of, lest you run away screaming."

I sit down heavily in my chair. "I didn't know."

"No. And I would have been content to let you go along, believing that I was taking in the sights, blithely letting you think me dead. But, I had held you in my arms and kissed you, Watson. I opened my heart and loved - against my better judgment, and against the principles I hold so dear. I heard of your wife's death, and my distraction caused me to walk into an ambush, from which I barely escaped with my life. I did not take leaving you lightly, dear fellow. It pained me terribly then, and I suppose it will pain me forever. But, I cannot bear to lose you, even as a friend. I do so love you, Watson, and I should do anything to have you back by my side. If it means that I must bear the presence of... Lestrade," he makes face, showing his distaste, "then so be it."

"He is-"

"Please, Watson," he interrupts with an upheld hand. "It is enough that you two have formed a special bond in my absence. I do not need to hear you extol the virtues of the good Inspector on top of it all."

"-my friend," I continue as if he hadn't spoken.

"His manner is more that of a lover," he rebuts. "While I would that he wasn't, there is nothing I can do to change facts."

"Sometimes facts can be confusing," I rejoin with a smile. "Surely you can deduce that it is you I love. He is quite special to me, but he knew from the beginning, and even now, that you hold my heart. It is a testament to his loyalty and friendship that he would bear me up through everything, knowing that he does not hold first place with me. I do like having him around, and would be hard pressed to cast him aside as though he was an old pair of shoes. I would allow him to continue as we have."

He coughs out a puff of smoke. "You what? Are you mad?"

I wave a hand at the smoke, and smile at him. "No."

"You... want to have… us? Both?"

"Not like you are insinuating, Holmes. Gustave is a rock to me, and would provide things that I could not, in good conscience, ask of you."

"Such as?" He gives me a hard look. "Surely I am as good a lover, and I have no doubt-"

"I was not speaking of the physical, Holmes. And he has never... You are the only one who's had that pleasure."

His eyebrows lift in surprise. "Indeed?"

"Stop crowing, it is very unbecoming."

"It was a mere smile, my dear fellow." He looks away shyly. "I have not indulged in the pleasures of the flesh since our last time together. Other than involuntary reactions and such things that come in an unguarded state, there was no one I desired. Though there were many who desired me, mind you." He stubs out his cigarette and smiles with a hint of pride.

At his words, at that arrogant smile, something breaks loose in me. I do not know how I manage it, but I leap from my seat and drag him to the floor, pinning him with the weight of my body. I look down at him, and all the years of pain and hurt and anger roil forth, and I cover his mouth with mine.

It is not a gentle kiss. It is meant as punishment, and he takes it as such. My hands are rough in his hair, pulling fiercely, forcing his head back to expose his neck to my mouth. I wrench my mouth away from his, and latch onto his neck, sucking hard. He moans and tightens his arms about my back, spreading his legs to let me fit between them.

"Oh, dear god, Watson, it's… too long… can't…!" He tosses his head from side to side, and moves his groin upward, seeking the matching heat of my own. "Please…!"

Hearing Holmes plead fills me with a hot yearning. I grind my hips against his, unable to control the movement, not wanting to. "I love you," I whisper, lapping at his lips. "I missed you. You have no idea!" My mouth takes his again, demanding, devouring. I rip at his shabby shirt, sending the buttons flying about the room. His chest is scarred, and his ribs show through his flesh, but I pay it no mind. I will deal with it later, much later. All I can think of is to drive him wild with sensation and wanting.

He grabs my wrist in a tight grip and drags my hand toward the fastenings of his trousers, making his desire known.

I jerk my hand away, and end the kiss. "Not yet, Holmes."

"I have… no time," he pants. "Years, Watson, since I've felt such pleasure. The touch of your… oh, god," he groans as my hips keep up the rhythm against him. "I cannot bear it!"

I look down into his eyes. Even though the false lenses colour them, I can see the stark need in them. "Then you shall not have to," I growl, and grab at his waist. I press down as he moves upward, and groan at the exquisite sensation. "Yes," I moan. "Yes!"

Holmes quivers beneath me, and his body arches high. I fight to hold him, but I find I cannot. He is wild in his release, tearing at my hair, clawing at my body as years of pent up emotion and pleasure overtake him.

Covering his shout with my hand, I push harder against him, and feel the familiar tingling at the base of my spine as my own release comes. I bury my face against his neck, and whisper his name. "I do so love you, Sherlock Holmes."

"I…" He is breathing as though he's just run a race. "I am so sorry, Watson. I beg of you, forgive me."

I wipe at the tears rolling down his cheeks. "It will take some time, dear one, but I do believe we are off to a good start."

His arms tighten around me, and then his hands are in my hair, stroking softly. "I dreamed of this. Night after night, the image of you and I, thus… haunted me. I came back because of Moran, but also because I could not bear another year away from you! I am utterly given over to this madness, Watson. I do not know how to behave, or how to go about this, but if you will assist me as you have always, I do believe I can be a good lover to you."

His face is open, his expression without his customary arrogance, without guile. And it is then that I realize that his hell was just as bad as mine, but he was not as lucky to have a friend to guide him back to the light. Perhaps it is not too late…

"We should get up," I say, rolling away from him. My trousers are damp and sticky, and Holmes is a mess. It would not do for Ivy to catch us so. "Why don't you go upstairs and lie down for a bit. You look as though you could use the rest. And after that, you need some food. I do not wish to have a lover whose ribs I can see."

As if on cue, he yawns. "I am rather tired," he admits. "And for you, to see you smile at me so, I will eat an entire Christmas goose." He takes the hand I offer and pulls himself from the floor.

I tug him against me, holding him close. "I am glad you've returned, Holmes."

"As am I, Watson." He smiles at me then, a genuine smile, full of love and warmth. It is a smile that I have only seen one other time, and it is my most cherished memory. "Can you really find it in your heart to trust me again?"

I lay my head on his shoulder and breathe in his familiar, comforting scent, and for the first time in three years, I feel happy. "We can but try, dear fellow."


End file.
